


Bloom

by drarryiscannon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, HP: EWE, Hogwarts Era, I wrote something happy holy hufflepuff, M/M, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 22:28:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7379920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drarryiscannon/pseuds/drarryiscannon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco speaks the language of flowers, maybe he can finally convince Harry to listen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloom

**Author's Note:**

> I'm actually really proud of this because it's happy and cute and wow no one dies or anything what a concept

A bundle of yellow tufted flowers tied together with a dark green silk ribbon lay upon his bed, looking terribly out of place among the gold and maroon bedspread. The sprigs of flowers looked lonely, almost. 

 

They were definitely beautiful, but Harry had no clue why they were there.

He gingerly picked the small bouquet up, and put it in his trunk, wrapped up in an old, too small Weasley sweater from second year.

A day later, Draco Malfoy drew acacia blooms on his parchment in Transfiguration while stealing glances at Harry Potter, sometimes sneering and other times looking almost wistful. 

                                  ****

Almost a week after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry receives a grand bouquet of flowers, in a green vase. 

The little card that is sticking out of the blooms only bears the Malfoy family crest.

Harry looks at the blooms curiously, shaking his head as he takes the vase into his hands, feeling the heavy weight of the cool glass against his hands. 

He almost dumps them in the trash, but stops as he is about to dump the bouquet in. Harry sets the vase down on his dining table, deftly taking the little card out of the flowers, and puts it in his pocket.

When Neville comes over for dinner later that night, he tells Harry they are Forsythia flowers. They mean anticipation, he says. 

Later he asks Harry who sent them, Harry shrugs and just shovels more curry into his mouth.

It's not nearly spicy enough.  
    
                                  ****   
 It is eight in the morning and there is a loud and awfully impatient banging on the front door of Grimmauld Place.

Harry blearily makes his way downstairs, yawning and scowling because it is far too early to be awake; didn't defeating a genocidal Dark wizard give him the privilege to sleep in until at least noon? 

Apparently not.

He throws the door open and is speechless.

Draco Malfoy is scowling at him, as pale and blond and pointy as ever, hair no longer slicked back with gel and whatever five thousand hair spells and potions he used back when they were at Hogwarts, but hanging loosely in his face, fringe almost covering one steely grey eye.

He tells Harry that it is awfully rude to not write a thank you note to him, he spent a good deal of money on those flowers, didn't those Muggles at least teach him proper manners, who the hell does he think he is, just because you saved the Wizarding world you still should abide by common courtesy, Scarhead.

Harry gapes when he hands him a bundle of chrysanthemums, tied together with a dark silk green ribbon.

Harry has another ribbon just like that, around a dried bundle of flowers from three years ago, from his time at Hogwarts.

Draco smiles, looks down at his watch, tells him politely that he had business to attend to, and he will owl Harry later. 

Then, he leaves.

Harry can still smell his cologne that night.

                                ****

Harry receives an owl the next morning, bearing a sprig of Aster. 

He twirls the blooms around, considering them. Patience, huh? Draco Malfoy has never been one for patience, but Harry supposed he'd like to see that change. Lots of things have changed, are changing. 

He smiles, tries to ignore the way his cheeks are burning, and gets out a piece of parchment and licks the tip of his quill.


End file.
